.
The city wants my nitrogen to hum, have fun in me,
so that the seeping mulch I am will make a lot of it.
Wonderful to feel and hear my guts so cunningly
produce the gas the city wants so it can plot with it
.
to fuss with – entertain itself. Not that what it does
with it is anything I know. It seems to like what
I am doing, though. I feel the city’s soothing buzz
inside: as if confiding, “You’re an And now, not a But.”
.
I’m a tiny essence in New York’s identity: it needs me
in however minuscule a way to keep some portion
of it in repair. Manhattan feeds and breeds me
so my hydrogen and methane can without distortion
.
help to gain, sustain the city’s equanimity. What better
destiny could I embrace? That any atom of me fits
in place in this great city’s plan! The spirit and the letter
of why I have any purpose here at all reside in its
.
decision to engage me as its slave, which honor gladly
I now savor. And if I leave this mortal coil in disgrace?
Won’t matter. I’ll do, though life go well or badly,
what I’m here to do: emit my CO2 in any, every case.
.
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